Dante

Little Dante, gathered in Ann Marie's arms, screaming. His feathery hair splays between her fingers as she offers soft, quiet words of comfort. Whisps brush the top of his ears. Their swollen centers are crusted over. The pressure is only heightened when he cries out in pain but being silent takes more effort. There is little to no hope for antibiotics. Neither is there someone to coo to him except for these short hours. Earlier he was asleep. Peaceful for a moment. But then nightmares came prowling and fear jerked him awake along with the pain of the infection.

I pray that this is righteous anger welling up within me because I cannot imagine feeling anything else.